Crumbling Walls

This story—my story— doesn’t begin like most others. It was something out of a dream, a nightmare, but like I said, it doesn’t begin in the water like most dreams, hell it doesn’t even end there. Unfortunately for me it’s much, much worse—you see—my story ends where yours begins, or at least that’s what the house would have me think; plastered walls that talk way too much for their own good.

Stacks of tightly wrapped pieces of carpet were all that was left of the house on 15th and Main—or so I thought; remnants of my house; my beautiful house where my beautiful wife and our beautiful kids lived—or rather it was the house we would live in some many, many years later—if everything went according to plan.

If only I could make it back, back to that safe, simple, boring life I left behind. Little did I know, if I had—I’d never have asked the questions—never been curious to see what life was like before me. I'd only ever asked to see a bit of history, my history, the history of the house my grandfather had willed to me, and what a mistake that was.

Nothing had ever been said about the house or the man who lived within. No mention of his growing family, their roots or the lives they'd leave behind. No word of mouth, no pictures—save for one, the only remaining photo of my grandfather—Lucky Leo—as they called him. An average-slightly handsome looking man seated wearily on a few stone steps before the porch had been built. We look a lot alike; some even say I’m his twin, his re-incarnate, his spitting-image. I always used to wonder why he’d been called that, and now I would do anything to forget. These walls would never look the same to me; the blood stains…that carpet, the hand-forged plaster...but today, today—Lucky Leo wasn't having such a lucky day.

Oh dear god. What had I done?

In this photo my grandfather looked so proud—his eyes dark, much darker than I remember, soulless even. His smile hid whatever unnerving secrets the photographer knew. His suspenders clamped over his faded wife-beater, a gray fedora hung down slightly to shade from the chilly sun; the ends of a smoldering back-alley cigarette between his two fingers. That picture was taken sixty years before I was born—not that long ago, a drop in the bucket of time and yet, the sheer brutality I would witness would haunt me long after I died but I had pressing things to worry about—I was beginning to hear the faint whispers of something talking—but it couldn’t be, it couldn’t.

Whispers continued, growing louder and louder until a faint scream emanated from my lips but it was no matter, the voice continued—

Buried sands and idle hands tempered plans for a soon forgotten man.

While up above and so down below, the deeply rooted tree devours its own; Clutching tightly to rotted bones and sinking graves of withered stone—it does more harm than it should to crawl unfettered—for to wilt and die is nothing but to sit on weighted, borrowed time.

“Stop it….stop it…stop it please,” I screamed.

“You asked for it Bobby…everything you ever wanted is here, you just have to see it for what it is…” The voice was right—I wracked my brains but couldn’t remember why I’d ever wanted to leave my former life; it looked so simple—too good to be true, but this, this was supposed to be a short, quick little visit back in time, to a place I thought would be better, simpler, quieter—but no one told me—getting out of the time-warp would be the problem, for now it seemed every day was the same—I woke up on a dust-covered couch, a thick quilt covering my tired frame.

How would I get home if nothing was ever different? I’d lived in my house and never heard any voices, maybe I was dreaming?

“It was only supposed to be for one night—isn’t that what you said?” the voice continued—“you made one tiny little mistake and see where it got you; your life, your house, this house…your entire world as you knew it…gone, poof…and for what, the pretty bartender…was it worth it? What would Jane say?”

“Jane? Jane…she hadn’t done anything wrong, I hadn’t done anything wrong…" the bartender was just trying to help…yes, that was it—it’s all coming back to me now. The bartender, what was her name? Her coy little smile, painted-red lips—or was her smile not really a smile? My head was foggy from too much drink, I couldn’t be certain.

There were signs, bright-neon-yellow flashing lights; warning signs—but naturally, as with everything I ignored them and kept going. It was nice having attention for once but I guess— as they say—it’s better to have bad luck than no luck at all, am I right?

“It was nothing, meant nothing…” I continued. Who was I trying to fool? The problem was me, all me. I was a man tired of his job, tired of going un-noticed, un-recognized and un-appreciated.

Oh what I wouldn't do to go back, to take it all back…

The smell of smoke tickled my nostrils, burning my throat—it was happening again, they were back—to collect. To hold me up to my end of the deal—whatever that was.

The voice interrupted—“oooh goody, you have visitors, don’t let them tear me down. I know what’s going to happen, you need me…just remember that when they bring the sledgehammers…”

“Bobby—wake up, it’s time…we need to get the house ready. You know what to do…don’t make it more complicated than it needs to be,"—the house was right, the guys from down the street—you know the type—short tempered and little patience or hesitation in their bodies.

Greg Morino did most of the talking, behind him were brothers Luca and Liam Citrelli, cornerstones, pillars of the community. They not only ran the block but owned it. Hell, they owned me...

I sat up, crusty eyed and agitated; one of the brothers threw a box-cutter at me—“get to work,”

“Yo, Bobby, Leo…” Liam snapped his fingers impatiently in my direction—“got your coffee ready…left you a bagel.”

No one ever called me Leo, just my mom. I looked over, sure enough—a piping hot cup of black coffee sat on the edge of the table; a warm bagel next to it.

“No time for cream, hurry, hurry…we don’t got all day,” Luca yelled from somewhere near the back door as he began chucking more mementos out of the house and into the roaring fire-pit out back.

“Leo? How’d you know…”

“What’d that girl from the bar hit you too hard or something…forget your name?”

“No, I just don’t go by Leo; it’s always been Bobby…”

“Well…now you’ll be Lucky if you get this done in time, Lucky Leo…”

"Yeah, that has a nice ring to it..." Liam whispered, chewing nervously on a toothpick--"we’ve got three more hours of this and then we gut her completely. Jimmy will be by later to collect the bodies. They’re ready for you to wrap.”

I looked over, that must’ve been what I smelled; the familiar scent of death.

“One-two-three,” I heard a grunt. “Push the couch over and start cutting,” Greg ordered, “the house will be all yours once we get the old owners out. You see the penalty for not keeping up with the fines…do what you’re told and you’ll have a brand new house by morning, no problems…nothing…”

The neighbors might've notice the Santucci’s moving out, they'd even stopped by to get some furniture from the roadside, but Jimmy—the local trash collector surely didn't. He was paid extra to turn a blind eye and for good reason. Why I couldn't have his job I’d never know. What I did know is if the neighbors ever said one word about whatever had happened to the Santucci's, they'd be next.

I picked up the box-cutter, slicing through layers of frayed carpet—each slab about four feet by six feet—enough to wrap a few body parts. The whole time I felt myself hovering over me as I worked. Clearly I wasn't cut out for this sort of life—and the talking wall kept reminding me.

“Shhhh—keep it down, if they hear you we will both be goners…” I hissed as I inched closer and closer to the wall. I’d only just awoken in this hell-hole and so far it was nothing short of torture—having gone to sleep Bobby Leonard Kane the Third, just a normal everyday Joe looking for excitement only to wake up a Hench-men, a hired-hit—left to take out the trash, to eliminate the problem. All things that went against everything I knew, everything I'd ever believed; and to top it off, this wall wouldn’t shut up.

It had even begun ca-cawing like a bird—a parrot, laughing loudly and saying—“Bobby want a bagel…a bagel…Bobby? Bobby want a bagel?"

and then it began making siren noises: “Leo….Leo….Leo….Lucky Leo….Leo,”

From out in the back I heard Greg beginning to lose his cool—“shut that damn bird up Bobby…”

My head pounded; I hurled a nearby book at the center mass of the wall. I knew I shouldn't have had that extra shot; my mind was playing tricks on me—but how, it couldn’t be—not if Greg could hear the voice too…

I thought back to the pretty lady at the head of the counter. She even smiled as she blew twenty-four karat pixie dust over the green and blue flames, my fifth roaming-apple of the night.

“When you wake up, you will see what you have lost and others have gained, or is it the other way around…only you know the answer. Here's some clarity for your peace, for days on repeat but do take heed, once you have the whole story, only then will you be allowed to leave...” I whispered what she had said over and over again in my mind.

“What’s it mean…” the wall asked curiously.

“I don’t know, why don’t you tell me, you seem to have all the answers, you’re so smart…”

Before the wall could reply—Luca’s brash voice interrupted—“who are you talking to?”

“What? Oh—that, no one, sometimes I just talk to myself, passes the time better…”

“Well don’t let Greg hear you doing that, he’ll think you’re crazier than he is…and that wouldn’t be good…”

I pursed my lips in understanding. He didn’t have to say more; here I was, knee deep in blood-soaked carpet and the wall was trying to get me killed. I looked into the mirror over the Santucci’s fireplace. I could swear my grandfather was staring back at me, or was I staring back at him? Who was who— I wasn’t quite sure of that, either.

The wall continued talking, ignoring Luca’s warning only this time I didn’t reply. This whole thing was becoming a right old mess. I couldn’t tell heads from tales, up from down, in from out. One-by-one I chucked the tightly wrapped bundles of carpet over my shoulder like heavy sacks of potatoes as I stacked them neatly on the curb. Within hours the house had been completely stripped of its former life—a brand-new key burning a hole in my hand. The very key I would make a copy of for my wife over half-a-century later.

“Fancy a drink?” Liam nudged, I smiled—wondering what—if anything would happen if I turned it down, would history repeat itself, or would the nightmare continue into another day as though nothing different happened? Either way I didn’t want to know—plumes of dust kicked up from under the floor-boards as concrete was raked over. The old man had hired a group of “other guys” to begin plastering the walls. I quit wondering what they had done to end up here, in my house. I wasn't even sure what my grand-father had done but alas, here he was, or rather— here I was and it was all the same.

“No bullets could penetrate these when we’re done,” Greg nudged his hammer hitting gingerly against the thick wall.

“I know…just keep that wall the way it is…” I called out, marking a large “X” over the talking-wall with chalk—“I have a plan for it... No one is to touch it…”

“Let’s get that drink,” Luca began, rounding the four of us up—“maybe Lucky Leo will get lucky with the bartender…”

“Yeah, it'd be just my luck…” I replied wearily, that was the last thing I needed, a bartender. “Wonder where she’d send me tonight..”

A familiar voice cut over the fray—it was the voice from the wall—"he's not ready, he didn't finish—one more day, I promise you will see—take him back to the lake, the lake you visited as a child...there will lie your dowry in kind..."

The lake? What lake? I turned the words over in my head—but they didn’t make sense. I felt something cold and smooth pour over me like lava—cold, thick, heavy lava.

The smell of smoke tickled my nostrils, burning my throat—it was happening again, only this time I was in the Santucci's living room but there was no coffee or bagels waiting for me. No talking walls, nothing—I was laying halfway submerged in something cold, damp, and wet. The smell of powdered-concrete and muddy grass was suffocating— was this how it felt to die? If I hadn't known better I would think the Centrelli brothers had buried me alive. I flung my eyes open.

"Wake up Bobby...wake-up, what did you do Bobby...what'd you do..." the voice from the wall... it was there—but where, there was no wall left?

I stopped, turning over—but I didn’t get far—the house was gone, burned to a crispy shell—the walls heaping piles of ash. Wet concrete pooled around me—it couldn’t be.

But I…I…I didn’t, I couldn’t…

“The wall…the wall…how will I get home now…”

“Don’t you worry about that, just do as I say…”

Crippling fear ripped through my body. I could feel my head starting to grow heavy; the sun had yet to rise and here I was lying in the middle of what was left of my yard. I felt my way around, something was shimmering in the shadows— the same familiar rusty lock lie amidst the charred wood. I crawled further onto the dewy grass. Salvation!!

"That's it, the key...the key...the key..." I mumbled, clutching onto the burning hot lock.

"Bobby...you fell asleep again..."

This time it wasn't the wall talking...it was my wife.

“You quit breathing…”

I jumped up, my chest tight, my body cold and clammy. It was a dream? But what about the wall...I looked over happy to see the familiar sight of my wife.

“I swear, that’s the last time you go to that bar…” she huffed, pulling the blanket over her shoulder. “This happens every time!”

“Bar?” Panic filled me once more, maybe it wasn’t a dream after all.